


Not alone.

by mishmish



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: A little crack-ish, Gen, Grad Student AU, Hurt/Comfort, Impostor Syndrome, M/M, Perfectionism, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:15:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6930235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishmish/pseuds/mishmish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is all set to take over the city, but one critical element is missing: his nemesis. That simply will not do. </p><p>Follows <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6117757">PhD sanity was never an option.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Not alone.

Everything was in place. All that remained was for Erik to flip the switch.

But it was getting chilly, and Erik was getting impatient. He pulled his cloak close around him and squinted at the clock tower of College Hall. No luck. Even high up on the rooftop, he couldn’t make out the clock hands. The evening was too dark, too misty. All the more frustrating that his nemesis failed to show: this weather was perfect for a dramatic reckoning.

Feeling a bit of a press for time, Erik reached into his pocket. He’d been skeptical when Charles suggested that a pocket could be a practical addition to his uniform. He’d worried that the knit fabric wouldn’t hold its shape, and truth be told it did warp a little with the added weight, but he was glad to have a phone on him. Maybe he’d thank Charles for the suggestion. That might soothe his ego after Erik evaded Charles’ attempts to save the day. Not that Erik had managed to evade Charles’ attempts so far, but tonight would be his turn to win, he was sure of it.

If only Charles would just show up.

Erik's phone showed eight o’clock and an otherwise empty screen. He'd been half-expecting a text from Charles. “Stuck on broken-down campus shuttle but have no doubt: I am on my way to put a stop to your dastardly plan,” maybe. Or “whatever you’re going to do, you don’t have to do this. Be there in ten!” with a running emoji. But nothing.

Erik had dropped _so many_ hints in the previous week. Or tried, at least. He’d made a point to mention that Shaw had him working on a mysterious side project. Erik’s work would facilitate the execution of Shaw’s plan without the interference of any news outlets or even social media. Unfortunately, when Erik told people that he was “innovating a new technology” to “disrupt the delivery of information across multiple platforms,” everyone assumed it was another shitty tech startup attempt and wished him luck as their eyes glazed over.

But still, he’d made sure to decline an invite to that evening’s Quizzo with a particularly suspicious “I’ll be otherwise engaged that night.” He’d even followed up by remarking on how interesting it was that anyone could access the roof of the university’s communications building “for any purpose.” Charles was even looking right at him when he said that part! He couldn’t possibly have missed it.

He’d so been looking forward to Charles’ grudging admiration. Charles would deny it, of course, but Erik would see in Charles’ eyes. Erik would know. That would be enough to satisfy him before Charles attempted to thwart him. The prospect - no, the _promise_ of a challenge from his worthy adversary had propelled Erik through the week. It had buoyed him through hours of Foucault and even more hours of MATLAB. But the worthy adversary was nowhere to be seen.

It wasn’t like Charles to keep from coming to the university’s rescue. Erik couldn’t help but be, well, worried.

 

* * *

 

After a few tries at the door of Charles’ apartment, there was still no answer. It was so disconcerting that Erik didn’t even bother to demonstrate his fearsome powers against a passing neighbor who snort-laughed at his purple cape. He just kept knocking. He was beginning to wonder whether he should melt the doorknob when the door swung inwards.

“Charles!” _You’re alive_ , he thought better of adding.

“What do you want? I’ll tell you right now I’m in no bloody mood for your theatrics, Magneto, so make it quick.”

“Well, um.” A little taken aback, Erik wasn’t sure what to say. “I was just, uh. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why?”

“Well, you didn’t show up at the communications building.”

“Sorry, but I don’t have the energy for your antics tonight.”

“You don’t even know what I’m planning to do!”

“Whatever it is I’m sure you have reason.”

“Reas-- Charles, are you feeling all right?”

“Do I bloody well look all right?!”

He was looking a bit rough. His hair was disheveled, and not in his usual artful way. The professorish sweater he’d worn with slacks in the morning now topped off a pair of threadbare sweatpants. He was sallow-cheeked with puffy, dark-circled, heavy-lidded eyes. He was leaning on the doorframe like he couldn’t stand without it.

“What’s wrong, Charles?”

“Like you care. Don’t you have some plot to carry out? Aren’t you going to go, oh, I don’t know, throw the entire children’s hospital into the river or something?”

“That was ONE TIME! And it wasn't the CHILDREN'S hosp- wait, you mean if I was, you'd just let me?”

“Sure. Go, do whatever your villainous heart tells you to do. I don’t care. I give up.” Charles went to close the door, but Erik stuck his arm inside and held it open.

“This isn’t like you. What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened. Everything’s fine. Peachy! I’m not at all regretting not becoming a lawyer or a banker or a rentboy or literally anything else in the entire world but an academic.”

Oh.

“Rough day, then?”

“I’d love to tell you all about it, and standing here is nice and all, but I have a bourbon waiting for me next to the couch, so I’m going to go work on that.”

On one hand, Erik was now free to return to his machine and carry out the plan without impediment. On the other hand, if he had to do it without a worthwhile audience that would fear and respect his power, why bother?

 

* * *

 

“A bourbon” was a disingenuous way to describe a full bottle, Erik thought, but he remained diplomatically silent. Charles was kind enough to pour some out into a mug for Erik before taking his own swig and flopping onto the couch.

“Do you ever have those days where you just can’t do anything right?” Charles began.

“Don’t we all,” Erik replied as he unfastened his cape. He folded it and placed it in a neat square on the coffee table before settling back and slinging his arm over the back of the sofa. “You had one today, I take it.”

“Yep. And like, do you ever feel really good about your work and then the feedback is just… brutal? I mean, I can handle some frank criticism but sometimes it’s just… I mean, why is it always the harshest as soon as you feel like you actually have a handle on things? And I’m so, so behind on grading. I’m so behind I keep looking at the pile of papers to grade and avoiding it because I’m so ashamed of how behind I am, which makes me more behind. And my favorite student has asked me for a recommendation for an internship and I promised her I’d get to it this weekend and I can’t imagine how, on top of all these papers to grade, I’ll get to writing this recommendation, but she needs it. I know, rationally speaking, that if I spent the time I’m spending panicking on doing my damn work instead it would be done but I just - I can’t. I don’t know how. I’m a basket case.” He looked up at Erik with bright, glassy eyes.

“We’ve all been there, my friend. But you’re brilliant. You must know that. People tell you this all the time. Students love you, professors love you...” It was true. Erik knew the feeling well, but it wasn’t right that Charles, of all people, should be doubting himself.

“Well, thanks. But I just can’t shake the feeling that all the people who say nice things to me are just being nice, and the ones who aren’t nice are being _honest_. Everyone else is brilliant and smart and I just don’t belong among them. I’m just really good at making people think I do. And sometimes I say the wrong thing. Or I do the wrong thing. And it’s like my mask has slipped and people know me for what I am, now, and that’s the worst thing that can possibly happen to me.”

"It's incredible to me that an actual telepath still struggles with this." 

"Well, if I read someone's mind, then I've confirmed everyone's worst fears about telepaths and confirmed my own worst fears about what everyone thinks of me in one fell swoop. OR! OR! I've confirmed to myself that I'm SUCH a fraud that I've got everyone fooled. So." 

“You aren’t giving yourself enough credit,” Erik said gently. “If everyone believes it, then it's true. You don't get to where you are by faking. Your professor doesn’t see the need to validate you because he assumes you know that if you weren’t already, uh, valid, you wouldn’t be here in the first place. You aren’t being fair to yourself. Everyone makes mistakes. Grad students are no exception. The only difference is that we hate admitting it, more than anyone.”

Charles pulled his knees to his chest and took another swig from the bottle. “It doesn’t feel like it, though. I’ve felt like a failure this entire week and I just can’t shake the feeling that people just keep me around because my name’s Xavier.”

Erik scoffed. “They keep you around for a lot more than that, I promise.”

“Do they? I’m not so sure at this point. Then on top of everything, you, of course, had to pick this week to stage your next whatever-you’re-doing and I didn’t bother trying to stop you because at the rate things are going I’d screw something up and you’d go ahead and use your stupid advisor’s machines and probably, I don’t know, wipe the memories of the entire philosophy faculty or something and that would just be one more thing I failed at this week. And then if you did it without hindrance it would still be my fault for not trying. I can't win. So why even try?”

Erik thought back to all the times Charles stopped him from carrying out his plans. “Yes,” he said loudly. “You were wise not to attempt to thwart me. But it is of no consequence now.”

“I haven’t had a vegetable or more than three hours of uninterrupted sleep in a week,” Charles groaned. “What do we get at the end of all this?”

“A PhD. And if we’re lucky, a job.”

“That’s a big if.”

“Yeah, but you’re brilliant and well-connected and hardworking. And you’ve got boatloads of family money if it doesn’t work out. Which it will.”

“I don’t take possession of it for another two years,” Charles grumbled. “It’s all in a trust and my dad set it up so that I had to learn to make my own living before I could get my hands on the family wealth. Something something work ethic, something something contributing to society. Meanwhile I’m always hungry and yet I’ve managed to gain ten pounds because the only thing I eat is Cup Noodles.”

Erik had exhibited some poor judgment in Charles’ presence before, but he knew better in the moment than to point out that he, like most of their peers, would do unspeakable things to have a multi-million dollar windfall only two years away. Instead, he reached out and patted Charles’ shoulder. “Well, listen. I just made a little extra cash working on my, um… independent... coding... project. I can spring for some takeout. Why don’t we do that? I can run out and get more booze if you want. Then I’ll help you write that recommendation. Then I’ll sit with you while you get started on the grading. You don't have to do it all tonight, but it'll be easier to finish tomorrow once you get the ball rolling. Then we can play a game, or watch something, or just... hang out.”

“Really?” Charles’ eyes shone. “You’re willing to spend your evening with me? Even though I’m a hopeless wreck?”

“Of course I would.” Shaw’s plan would just have to wait.

A grin spread across Charles’ face. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Nonsense, you don’t have to thank me. It’s what friends do for each other.”

“Can I offer you a change of clothes, at least?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, actually, yeah. I didn’t pick the most moisture-wicking material for this outfit and I did sort of rush over here, so…”

“Say no more.”

Two hours later, in Charles’ sweatpants and full of Indian takeout, with his helmet resting on his neatly-folded uniform, Erik had to concede that this was a more pleasant evening than the one he’d initially planned.

 

* * *

 

By midnight, Erik was snoring on Charles’ couch.

No catastrophes in the news. No sirens, explosions or screams.

Charles smiled. He hadn't even tried, yet here Erik was.   
  
Thwarted, once again.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what Erik is getting his PhD in. Just roll with it.


End file.
